


"National Heroes"

by pdorkaa



Category: Captain America (Movies), Marvel Cinematic Universe
Genre: Headcanon Accepted, M/M, Period-Typical Homophobia
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-07-08
Updated: 2015-07-08
Packaged: 2018-04-08 09:11:33
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,638
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4299045
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/pdorkaa/pseuds/pdorkaa
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>
  <em> "In the 50-60s, Steve and Bucky's apartment was made into an exhibit, and you could walk around it as it was with the addition of a load of Howling Commandos memorabilia. The first thing the curator had to do, however, was to buy a bed matching the one they already had. They couldn't have the public thinking that Captain America and Bucky Barnes shared a single bed, absolutely not." </em>
</p>
            </blockquote>





	"National Heroes"

**Author's Note:**

> pinterest-found bland headcanon. i'm so sorry. but i kinda had to.  
> \--I just wanted to thank all the kudos and hits and bookmarks that have been happening ^^

**prologue**

 

"I'm so excited!"

"Hush, Johnny!"

Two men appeared on the stairs. One of them was older, somewhere around fifty, the other may have been twenty at best. They were carrying a few empty boxes and a key. They went down a corridor, and disappeared into one of the apartments at the far end. In the dusty morning silence the younger man's voice echoed through the hallways.

"But Sir, we are chosen to-"

"Johnny!"

 

 

**3 January 1949; Monday**

Philip J. Anders could swear he had the  _worst_  job on the planet.

In the thirties, America could afford museums and culture, but with the war, all these values faded. He would always say "thank the Lord they didn't hoard all the metals from us", referring to the Smithsonian Institute, which he was a curator of.

And now he'd been assigned an exhibit, which in itself was not a bad thing. But sadly enough, this exhibit was about soldiers, so-called national heroes of the States; Cpt. Steve Rogers and Sgt. James Barnes by name. And if having to look after an exhibit completely opposing his beliefs - culture above all - was not enough, a twenty-something young folk was assigned as his  _assistant._ Not that twenty-something Johnny could help with anything. He went on babbling about how these two men should be idols of everyone on the planet, how they set the perfect example. Philip J. Anders could not care less.

Besides, the war had just ended. He didn't really understand how the dead couldn't wait, say, five more years. Or ten. But then again, he didn't really care. He'd never experienced something like this within the walls of the Smithsonian, but this was only a distant job for him.

He heaved himself up on the stairs, carrying a handful of empty boxes, occasionally - two times per breath - shushing twenty-something Johnny, and went for the last door in the corridor, fitting the small key into the lock.

As they entered the long-abandoned apartment, clouds of dust emerged from everywhere. Philip J. Anders had to stop for a long, heavy cough that left his lungs aching.

"Johnny, make yourself useful and open the windows." He said, his tone the least bit friendly, but twenty-something Johnny hurried to the nearest window with a huge grin on his face nonetheless.

As the apartment was slowly filled with light, they could make out the furniture. And the ankle-high dust.

"Johnny, get back to the car and bring a broom or something! Then, at least, you'll not be in my way." Twenty-something Johnny smiled, nodded and hurried away. The curator used his time to take a deep breath - a very bad idea - and to wander around the apartment - an even worse idea.

 

 

**15 October 1938; Saturday**

The black clouds of war hung over America. With every day, they felt the danger as it crept closer, but for the time being, Steve and Bucky tried to forget about it. Bucky knew that he was going to be drafted; he also knew Steve was not. Steve hoped Bucky would escape, he prayed for it, he really did. On the other hand, no matter how he loved Bucky, he felt that he was never going to feel he was doing the right thing if he wasn't off killing evil.

This calm, beautiful Saturday morning, however, made them forget their worries. Light was filtering in between the cracks of the curtains, lighting the dust in the air. During this time of the year, sunlight was a rare gift. In the bedroom, James Barnes and Steve Rogers slept curled together, with no thought of becomng "Sergeant" or "Captain". 

They hadn't been doing anything particularly interesting that day. Bucky put up a record and Steve drew in his notebook. They would make food, standing in the kitchen, laughing together, they would make love later in the bedroom, moving together, and it was that perfect kind of bliss that only a silent October sunshine could bring.

 

 

**3 January 1949; Monday**

Johnny returned with the requested broom, and after a brief "tidy up!", he was sweeping up all the dust. From the inside of the apartment, he could hear Mr. Anders' voice, talking to himself. He sounded angry. 

Johnny moved into the kitchen, looking around first. It was full of neat cabinets, some with the china still stacked up inside. He could imagine how the two comrades, friends lived here, taking turns at cooking, sharing a dinner maybe, then going to bed. He put down the broom, wandered off, and found one of the bedrooms. It had a relatively large bed, almost as big as a double bed. He went on, found the living room, where he found a dusty couch and a matching armchair. What's more interesting, he found Mr. Anders sitting in said dusty armchair, muttering something.

"Is everything okay, Sir?" He asked.

"Yes, yes, of course. Get back to work! And after that, collect the garbage and useless clutter into thos boxes!" Philip J. Anders said, straightening his back. The kid mustn't know.

 

 

**4 January 1949; Tuesday**

"What do you mean?"

A sound creaked through the speaker of the telephone.

"Order two smaller then! It's for my children."

Another set of muffled sounds.

"By this Thursday? Fine. But hurry with that."

Philip J. Anders put down the telephone. He was at the Smithsonian Institute, talking over the line with a carpenter. His original intent was to buy another bed matching to the one in the apartment, but the carpenter said it was impossible in such short time, and the curator was really on the clock here. He had to make this work. If anyone found out that  _Captain America and Sergeant Barnes,_ the latest  _National Heroes,_ shared a bed, his whole world and career would collapse. He could not let the rumors start that he sympathized with the causes of faggots. A sickness, they called that.  Yes, it was precisely that. And if anyone got word of how Philip J. Anders ran an exhibit about these poor sick people, he would be ended instantly as a curator.

So he ordered two beds. There was a spare room, smaller than the bedroom, a single bed would fit perfectly in there. Johnny would not ask more questions - he had already convinced his  _assistant_ about a damaged or stolen bed.

 

**19 January 1949; Wednesday**

People lingered into the small apartment. It was cleaned up, every major thing left in its place - except for the bed, of course. Also, there were several boards added, explaining how the American idols were forced to live in such a small space and presenting some members of the Howling Commandos. Of course, the people were more interested in Captain America, but while they were around, they got familiar with the names of the others, who didn't matter to the public till this very day.

This day was the opening of the exhibition. Massive income for Smithsonian, massive pride bubbling up in Philip J. Anders' chest, and massive excitement buzzing inside Johnny.

Johnny went ahead, mixed in with the first three or four rounds of people, nodded to the cashier at the entrance, and visited the exhibition again and again. For the fifth time though, it started to get boring, and he stood beside Mr. Anders, looking immensely proud himself.

"You did good, kid" Mr. Anders said, not looking at Johnny.

"Thank you, Sir" Johnny nodded, and just for this once, he didn't start bouncing with excitement. Though he felt the need for it, because he had the  _best_ job on this planet.

 

 

 

**2015**

Assembling the new Avengers Initiative was quite a handful for Steve to handle after he and his teammates had destroyed Ultron. Nat's been really helpful, along with Clint, Stark and Banner, and so was Thor and Vision. Nick Fury remained in the background. Sam also helped actively, but he was a bit off the stage until last month, since he was on the search for Sergeant James "Bucky" Buchanan Barnes, former Winter Soldier, The Asset and Steve's lover. Steve would have gone too, but Sam insisted that he was fine, and Captain  _America_ should really focus on America's safety.

But Sam Wilson came back, bringing a somewhat unstable and distant Bucky with him. Steve cried out of relief. Then he cried more, because Bucky was broken, and while he had some shattered memory fragments inside him, he was not Bucky anymore. Not entirely.

It had taken months for Steve to get him open up, though Bucky still reacted uneasily of people touching him, even brushing past him.

 

 

"What'd you think happened with our apartment?" He asked one day, startling Steve. He didn't really talk, let alone asking questions. His voice was gravelly, husky, but other than that, he seemed okay today.

"I don't know" Steve answered carefully, "wanna check it out?"

"Ain't it in NY?"

"Well, yeah. Good thing I run this place." Steve said. Bucky didn't remember him being so confident. Well, most of the time, even Cap was surprised at himself.

And that was the story behind "Nat, I really need you to fly this jet to Brooklyn".

 

 

**epilogue**

"Where's the bed?" Bucky asked once again.

They were standing in the "bedroom" between artificial lights and large boards claiming this tiny bed to be Steve Rogers'. Steve just shook his head once again.

"I don't know" he whispered.

"It's been thrown out!" An old voice suddenly said. They turned around to see a small old man leaning on a crutch. 

"What?" Steve asked. He glanced at the old man's name tag. _John Atwell._

"We couldn't find the other one anywhere. Must've been damaged or something. Had to order two matching new ones!"

Steve and Bucky looked at each other, then they excused themselves and left.

Even after their "deaths", they couldn't be ordinary men, apparently.

**Author's Note:**

> Philip J. Anders is, surprise-surprise, Philip Jonathan Anders. if anyone was wondering.


End file.
